Winterbourne (6 page)

The next instant she cried out as Jaufre spun around and caught her shoulders in an iron grip. He felt almost grateful to Finette. It was so much easier to deal with anger than grief.

"Never fear. I would not bury my dog in this stinking hole. I will take the comte where he belongs, back to Clairemont."

Finette gave a near hysterical laugh. "Clairemont? And do you think the French constable will simply open the gates and let you march right in to hold your touching little rites?"

"He will open the gates," Jaufre said, releasing her. "By God, he will. Or I will open them for him."

Jaufre's threat proved unnecessary. The constable at Clairemont willingly flung wide the castle gates by gracious permission of His Most Sovereign Majesty, Philip Augustus of France. Although the comte had ever been his enemy, the French king sent his condolences at the death of the right brave knight Raoul de Macy and begged that as soon as his grief was somewhat assuaged, Lord Jaufre would do him the honor of paying a visit to the court in Paris.

After Jaufre had the old comte entombed at Clairemont's chapel in a magnificent porphyry sarcophagus with all the pomp and respect due his high rank, the earl considered King Philip's invitation despite strong objections from Tristan.

"I do not trust the man." Tristan scowled. "Can you forget how he conspired to keep King Richard a captive of the emperor?"

Jaufre shrugged. "Philip would have little to gain by imprisoning me. No one is going to raise one hundred and fifty thousand marks for my release."

Paying final respects to his grandfather's tomb, Jaufre ordered his knights to pack their gear and be ready to ride to Paris. He girded on the comte's sword, which still felt strange strapped to his side, being heavier and far more ornate than his own weapon. But it felt no stranger than the thick seal ring he now slipped onto his right hand. Engraved on its flat surface were two swans, their long necks entwined, the badge of the lords of Clairemont.

Tristan shifted awkwardly as he watched Jaufre put it on. "I removed it from the comte's finger the morning after he died. Before he sent me to fetch you that night, he instructed me to see that you received it when he was gone. He—he bade me make certain you did not lose his seal as you did your own."

Tristan's eyes locked with Jaufre's, and then they both burst out laughing, the first easing of their solemn mood for many days. The remark Tristan repeated was so typical of the old comte. When Jaufre had mislaid his own signet ring during his stay at Sir William's manor, his grandfather had groused at him unmercifully for his carelessness.

In somewhat lighter spirits than when they had arrived, Lord Jaufre's entourage rode away from Clairemont to Paris. As his black stallion cantered through the double gates of the city wall and over the drawbridge that spanned the green waters of the Seine, the earl saw at once that the reports he had heard were true. Philip Augustus was rebuilding Paris. Church spires warred for precedence with the cone-capped towers of what had once been an old hunting lodge and was now the mighty fortress known as the Louvre. Burghers shoved their way through the throngs of students, peasants, and artisans making their way to Les Halles, the brightly painted buildings housing the new marketplace.

And still the air rang with the boatmen's shouts as they unloaded more sand and limestone from their leather-sailed boats onto the quays. Jaufre's ears were assailed with the steady chink of workmen's tools and the creak and clank of the hoisting machines as the construction continued. A man of vision, this Philip Augustus, he thought. A man of ruthless ambition. So what did he want of the earl of Winterbourne?

As they crossed the Petit Pont, Jaufre drew alongside Tristan to gauge his reaction to Paris's new splendors. He was amused to note the younger man's eyes darting from side to side as if he expected an ambush to be launched at them from every side street. The look on his face bordered on panic when they arrived at the old island palace and Jaufre was summoned to a private audience with Philip Augustus.

Jaufre returned from the meeting to find Tristan in the great hall pacing before the fire. Deeply aware of the jealous glances cast his way from the French nobles who lingered hoping to have but one word with their king, Jaufre crossed the room to his friend's side.

Tristan halted his nervous footsteps and scanned the earl's face. Keeping his features blank, Jaufre held out his hands to the fire, maintaining a maddening silence.

"Well, my lord?"

"Well what?" Jaufre asked, quirking an eyebrow at the knight's agitated countenance.

"What happened? Was he threatening?"

"Oh, nay. Quite the reverse. Charming, manners like figured silk, so smooth and fancy you wonder what it's going to cost you. He took me out on the walkway around the tower and pointed out how far they have come with the work on the new cathedral. Too much effort to be spent on a church, I thought. Now if it were a new fortress—"

"He did not invite you to Paris to show you Notre Dame," Tristan said impatiently. "What else did he speak of?"

"Well, he expressed his sympathy again and—" Teasingly, Jaufre broke off as he bowed, returning the nod he received in passing from the chevalier de Grenville and Baron Fecamp, worthy opponents from his tournament days.

Tristan seized hold of his friend's sleeve. "Damn it, Jaufre. What does Philip want?"

Jaufre grinned but decided he had goaded Tristan enough. Prying his friend's fingers loose from his black tunic, he replied, "In his own subtle fashion, His Majesty wished to remind me there might be more than one way back to Clairemont."

"And what the devil does that mean?"

"It means that our dear King John is not the only monarch with invasion plans."

Despite the heat thrown out by the massive hearth, Tristan turned pale. "You—you think Philip means to invade England?"

"If the time were right," Jaufre said, remembering the covetous gleam in the French king's eye when he had talked about his island neighbor. "And when that time comes, he has invited me to throw over my allegiance to John and cast in my lot with him—for the return of' Clairemont, of course."

He waited for an indignant outburst from Tristan at the mere suggestion of such a thing. He was surprised when the knight frowned and lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

At last Tristan said, "Much as I hate to admit it, the French king has shown himself more skilled at warfare than John. Philip's proposal may well be the only way for you to fulfill the pledge to the old comte."

"Surely you jest. Set aside my fealty to King John! Risk losing Winterbourne! And for what? Clairemont is not worth a tenth of my English holdings."

"To your grandfather, Clairemont was worth all of England," Tristan reproached him. "What will you do, my lord? Simply forget your promise?"

"I'll do as I see fit," Jaufre replied flatly. "And I do not need fools like you constantly reminding me of that damned oath."

Tristan compressed his lips and turned his back on Jaufre. Jaufre raised his hand, wanting to reach out to assure Tristan that his irritation was not with his friend but with the predicament in which he found himself. But the knight was already striding away.

Jaufre dropped his arm to his side and swore softly. He had had much time to regret the pledge given to his dying grandfather. By the wounds of Christ, it would have been easier to keep a promise to find the Holy Grail. King John was no Richard the Lion-Hearted. While Normandy fell to the French, castle by castle, 'twas rumored that John lolled abed with his young queen. Even with the support of his barony, it would be a miracle if John Softsword, with his lack of military prowess, could reconquer the lost territory. And the barons did not support John. Most of them were not interested in wasting men and money in a futile attempt to win back continental possessions they had learned to do without. In vain had Jaufre labored to convince his grandfather to be satisfied with his English estates. He had failed, and now he was pledged to carry on with this madness himself.

Yet Jaufre knew that he could never accept Philip's offer to betray John. Even as he had sworn an oath to his grandfather, he had also sworn an oath of loyalty to the king of England. Other men might devise excuses to break their word, but not the lords of Clairemont; their motto was "My honor, my life." To a de Macy, honor and life were one and the same. No matter how great his reluctance, he had no choice but to try and retake Clairemont with his sword, even if it seemed a certainty he would die in the attempt.

A commotion at one end of the hall disrupted Jaufre's gloom-filled train of thought. He looked up expecting to see that Philip Augustus had descended to greet his nobles at last, but the disturbance came from a new arrival to court. Head held high, the lady Finette made her entrance, resplendent in a yellow damask gown and pillbox cap scalloped to resemble a coronet. Jaufre's lips curved in a sardonic smile. Her red velvet mantle was pinned into place with the jeweled brooch he had flung at her.

After their last encounter, he fully expected her to sweep haughtily past him. He was therefore surprised when she ignored the inviting stares she was receiving from most of the Frenchmen and walked straight to where he stood.

"My lord Jaufre." Her dark eyes glinted at him over the rim of her fan. "How fortunate that I find you still in Paris. I feared you might already have embarked for England, and that would have been a great pity."

"How so. my lady? Are you still out for my blood or only eager to earn yourself a necklace to match the brooch?"

An angry red surged into Finette's cheeks, but she kept the smile fixed on her lips. The expression reminded Jaufre of a sleek greyhound he'd once had, how the animal would look when it managed to capture one of the tiny wrens flitting into the garden.

"' 'Tis most unchivalrous of you to address me thus, especially when I have come so far to bring you urgent news from England. I am afraid you must brace yourself for more unpleasantness."

Finette's smile broadened as she turned and snapped her fingers. A short figure emerged from the shadows of the arched entryway. Cautiously he approached Lord Jaufre, pausing midway to doff his cap, thus exposing a familiar balding pate.

"Pevensy. What the devil!" Jaufre said, taking a menacing step forward, which caused the little man to falter.

"You do know this fellow, then," Finette purred. "He came to my chateau looking for you, but I was not sure whether to put faith in his claims or not."

"Know him? Tis my steward from Winterbourne. Come here at once, varlet."

" 'Twas not my fault, my lord," Pevensy began to whine. "I have been grievously wronged. All summer I have awaited your return from Brunswick so that you might redress—"

"Redress be damned. What are you doing so far from your duties?" A horrible thought struck Jaufre, and he seized Pevensy by the front of his tunic. "Winterbourne. Something has happened at Winterbourne. Quickly. Tell me. Has it been overrun by the Welsh?"

"N-nay, my lord. By a woman."

"What!"

"S-she—she drove me from the gates of Winterbourne," Pevensy sputtered. "But I swear I did nothing wrong."

Jaufre gave him a quick shake. "Who?
Who
?"

" Y-your lady wife, my lord."

Stunned, Jaufre loosened his grip.

"Why, Jaufre," Finette mocked him. "How secretive you have been. Faith! Are you ashamed of your new bride?"

"Damn you. You know I have no wife!" Jaufre caught hold of Pevensy again and this time lifted him so that his toes barely touched the ground. "You had best come across with the truth, you lying miscreant, before I flay you alive."

Pevensy went white from his neck to the top of his bald head. "I—I swear, my lord. The lady… she did say she was your wife. Everyone at Winterbourne believes her."

Finette bubbled over with merriment. "An imposter! Lord Jaufre's mighty fortress has been taken single-handed by some clever harlot."

Her shrill voice carried and captured the attention of half the room. To his annoyance, Jaufre saw that many of the French barons were drawing closer, their faces twitching with curiosity.

With great effort, he lowered his own voice. "You are telling me you turned Winterbourne over to some whore?"

"No. No. 'Twas a lady. Sir William's daughter," Pevensy cried. "She had your falcon's seal, my lord, and was escorted by the king's own men."

The chevalier de Grenville's voice rang out. "By heaven, it seems English castles are easily taken. Perhaps we should arm our ladies and send them across the Channel." His comment was followed by a chorus of booming male laughter.

Jaufre felt his face flush a deep red. He gave Pevensy a rough shove that nearly sent him toppling to the floor. "Get out of my sight, you whoreson knave, before I plant my foot up your arse."

The laughter ran louder as Pevensy scuttled for the door, still sniveling. Finette doubled over with mirth. "Months this thieving wench has had, queening it as the countess of Winterbourne. When you return, my lord, you will be kicky to find a cellar left to hold your salt."

She took hold of Jaufre's arm, clearly enjoying every minute of his discomfiture. "Poor Jaufre. This creature at Winterbourne must be a madwoman, doubtlessly possessed of a demon. Shall I send Father Hubert back to England with you to perform an exorcism?"

Jaufre shook free of Finette as he strove to control his anger, lest he be tempted to wipe the smirks off these French faces. He strode away without replying and did not check his step until he was well clear of the great hall.

Sir William's daughter, that dolt Pevensy had said. Who would have thought that simpering little Beatrice would have been cunning enough to play him such a trick? But now that he thought about it, he could see how she had brought the thing about.

He pictured again in his mind the day he had lost his seal ring at Wydevale. Standing in the apple orchard, he had suffered a bee sting in the webbing between his fingers. Noting his hand beginning to swell, he had stripped off his ring before it could become painfully tight. Then she had come up, annoying him by wanting to squeeze his hand and recite some curing incantation she had learned from her old nurse. In the process of struggling to avoid her nonsense, he had dropped the ring, unnoticed, into the grass. Later, when he had returned to the spot, all efforts to find it had been in vain.